


Ley Lines and Birdsong

by HigherMagic



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Fae & Fairies, Frottage, Grinding, Hunters & Hunting, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marking, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rickyl Writers' Group, Versatile!Rickyl, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For eight months Daryl has been rescuing children and bringing them to the spirit in the woods. (Mildly Puritan/Villager!Daryl and Fey!Rick).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ley Lines and Birdsong

**Author's Note:**

> Hey it's the Fey!Rick fic no one asked for. Um, versatile Rickyl, and though Negan and Dwight's names come up this is super-de-dooper AU so no spoilers, of course. 
> 
> Thank you to the Rickyl Writers' Group for shameless and constant encouragement. You guys are awesome!

Time is arbitrary to the fey folk. Daryl tells himself that, because otherwise there's no fucking excuse for Rick to be late.

He shouldn't be surprised, but the woods are wild at this time of day and the infant in his arms is just starting to get fussy. Daryl pets her cheek and looks into her wide brown eyes, shushing her quietly as she starts to whine and beats her little fists against his chest in protest at being held so long in the cold night.

"Shh, Judy, s'okay," he whispers, wrapping her thin blankets more tightly around her face to protect her and hugging her close to his chest. "S'okay, you'll be home soon."

Just as he speaks, the trees start to rustle and sing in a way he has come to closely associate with Rick's presence. He turns, his eyes searching for the man and finding him as he steps out onto the small deer trail Daryl knows by heart now. Eyes the color of moonlight and mountain lakes glitter despite the lack of light, and when Rick smiles his pointed fangs gleam and show.

"Took you long enough," Daryl greets gruffly, rubbing his hand gently up and down the child's back as he lifts her up to be cradled against his shoulder. Rick cocks his head to one side, a low purr echoing in the air as he blinks and steps towards Daryl. The air shifts, the forest knowing its own as he prowls closer to get a better look at Daryl and his burden.

"Hello, stranger," Rick murmurs, one hand reaching out and crackling with power as it brushes the skin of Daryl's forearm. He's wearing his poncho today to protect him from the cold and feels the child in his arms drooling on it as he holds her, bouncing her gently to keep her calm. "What have you brought for me today?"

"A gift," Daryl replies, knowing the exchange well by now. For eight months he has come here to meet Rick, sending out a whistle to alert the man that he's coming and waiting in the interim for Rick to appear to him. Unofficially, they always meet at dusk, but Daryl likes the forest to know he's coming. It is a sentient place, wild and full of wonder.

_Beware the fey folk, traveler. They are a tricky lot._

Rick smiles, the expression warm and wide. "A gift," he says with a sigh. "Thank you, Daryl."

Daryl hands the baby over, letting go of that little tension he always has around Rick when the man takes her gently and she instantly calms at his benevolent, kind touch. Daryl has felt the power in Rick's hands and knows the man's electricity and magic on his skin. He knows the touch must be wonderful to such a sweet, innocent thing.

Rick doesn't exactly frown so much as tilt his head curiously, a little trill coming from him as his eyes shine. He looks into the baby's dark eyes carefully, mouth twitching. "This one is…younger than usual, Daryl," he says, looking back to the hunter as though confirming that Daryl didn't bring him the wrong child by accident.

"Her parents are dead," he says, shifting his weight awkwardly. "I knew…I knew them. They were good people. Would have been good parents, but they died."

"Ah." Rick's expression melts back into a smile, showing his fangs. His happiness threads through Daryl's hair, tickles along his spine, and the trees around them shiver with it. "This is a wonderful gift." He cradles the baby close, then, nosing into her soft, downy hair. "I've never been given someone this young. She's beautiful. What is her name?"

"Judith," Daryl says hoarsely, putting his weight on one foot again and digging his hands into his hunting belt.  "Judy."

"Judith." Rick says her name with power, and the trees bow down to whisper the child's name as well. At once she is destined to be immediately welcomed as one of the fey. She will be taken from her human home and lead a life with Rick and the other fey folk, deep in the heart of the woods where none dare venture.

They stand in silence for a long while until Judith's eyes blink closed and she settles with a soft yawn, and Daryl smiles, knowing that Rick will love her like his own. Just like all the other children Daryl has brought him.

"I will treasure her," Rick finally says, stepping back to melt into the darkness between the trees. "You will be blessed with your hunt tomorrow, Daryl. Thank you."

"Until next time, stranger," Daryl replies, finishing their contract with a nod of his head. Rick responds with a regal bow of his own before he disappears and the trees bid them both good night. It is too late to hunt, especially with this little light, so Daryl picks up his flint and torch, lights it until the little fire blazes and illuminates the path around him, and starts to head home.

The fey don't like fire and Daryl always makes sure to venture into the woods when there is light to see by. The bushes moan and tremble as he passes and Daryl makes sure to soothe them and keep the fire high and away. A buck skips across his path at one point, testing him, but Daryl pays it no mind. Rick had blessed him for the morning, not tonight, and to violate their contract would cause something so dire and awful that Daryl doesn't like to pay it much thought.

He walks back to the farmhouse he shares with his brother, a little ways removed from the rest of the village. There are candles flickering in some of the windows but most of the town is asleep as he extinguishes his torch and sets it in a patch of barren grass by the door. He removes his poncho from his shoulders and steps into the house with a sigh. Merle is not there, still out trading or finding his own company for the night, and Daryl is alone when he steps into the single room of the house and makes his way to his own bed.

His bed is on the right side of the house, facing the forest. Sometimes Daryl can see the faeries and will-o-wisps dancing in Rick's forest, their spritely laughter like icicles tinkling together on a winter tree. He aches to go back to the forest but he is too old, too human now, to belong there.

He sheds the rest of his clothes in front of the window, unwilling to hide himself from whatever might be watching. There are friends in the forest who protect him and his brother ever since he started his parley with their master, and Daryl knows he need not fear wolf or bear or any other creature that might venture in close and wish to attack him unprepared.

"Good night, Rick," he whispers to the open air as he settles down to sleep, and imagines he can hear the fey man's warm laughter in his ear as he closes his eyes.

_Good night, stranger._

Daryl's neighbors do not treat him kindly. They never have – his father was a drunk and a hooligan at best and a downright danger at worst, and they tolerate Merle but find Daryl too strange and wild to accept most days. Still, he has never been woken by the sound of hollering and someone beating down the door at dawn. He's mostly awake already, watching the sun breach the treetops and warm Rick's forest with a gentle, nurturing hand.

When he opens the door it is to Sisters Andrea and Bethany, their eyes burning and their mouths pinched. He cocks his head to one side, watching them take in his appearance with disdain. "Welcome, Sisters," he says with a calm nod, as though they hadn't been set to break his door down mere moments before. "Is my brother making trouble again?"

"We are here for _you_ , Mister Dixon," Andrea replies sharply, her eyebrows raised in a haughty expression that belies the fierce rage in her eyes. "For the crime of kidnapping!"

Daryl blinks. "Is that so?"

"We know you took Mister Shane and Miss Lori's baby," Beth says, her voice more earnest but no less angry. "You took her, and sacrificed her to those _pagan_ beasts!"

"I did no such thing," Daryl replies, lifting his chin. He has never threatened a woman and doesn't intend to start now, but he will not have them speaking ill of Rick. "Judith was entrusted to the care of your orphanage. You mean to tell me you lost a baby?"

" _You_ took -."

"I was in the woods all day," Daryl says, cutting Andrea off with a sharp look. The lies didn't used to come as easily as this and he still feels a little uncomfortable doing so, some Christian guilt still worn into his bones from his parents, but it is a small thing when faced with accusations that would skin him alive and run him out of town. "You can ask anyone."

"No, we can't," Andrea spits. "Because there are no witnesses when you are in the _woods_ , Mister Dixon. And so coincidentally, too, whenever a child is found missing." She leans closer, her cheeks coloring with anger. "We will see you _hang_ for this one. Judith was a baby! Do you know what they _do_ to children of her age?"

Daryl knows the stories. He also knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are not true.

"Ladies, if you do not come here with official evidence or a warrant, I must kindly ask you to leave," he says with a grunt, reaching over to grab his bow and the bag he uses to carry rabbits and other game he finds after a hunt. "After all, without me there is no meat. I'd hate to see what the menfolk do when they go without their precious hides and fleshes. Now, do you mean to detain me?"

The women glare at him, but subside with huffs when they realize he is right. Daryl provides meat to the entire village, as the rest of them are too scared to go hunt in the forest outside of the height of summer. Daryl wonders if it bothers Rick to have so many men in his forest at once, mercilessly slaughtering his kin and care, but he has never asked. Theirs is not that kind of relationship although Daryl has always burned with curiosity and desperation to know.

"Good day," he says in a clipped tone, closing the door behind him and striding between the two of them with his gaze already fixed on the forest. The air is warm and the trees rustle gladly as he approaches.

He reaches out to touch the trunk of an old birch, smiling when he feels the wind gently press him forward like a playful child. "May I?" he asks, because he always does – his respect and love for the forest is what had earned him Rick's favor in the first place.

The birch creaks at him as though bowing its head. Daryl had at first thought, long ago, that it was his imagination when the trees spoke to him. Now he believes it with all his heart. He can hear birds chirping and squirrels chittering, inviting him in, and he steps under the birch with a smile, ready to take the blessing of meat and food that Rick so willingly promises him.

 

 

Daryl's bag is full of rabbits and squirrels before noon, and he takes a break by one of the clear streams that runs through the known area of the forest. He cups his hands through the clear water and splashes his face and runs another handful through his hair, sighing happily at the cool water as it drips down his neck. There is a small cropping of rock on the side where he sits, warm with the sun when he presses his hands against it.

The area here is silent and still, only the babbling brook breaking the silence, and Daryl squints up at the patches of sunlight shafting through the trees. He truly loves it here, and feels most at peace amongst the wild thing that live under Rick's loving care.

His attention is drawn by a young doe, fat and healthy, her coat glistening when he walks into his view. For a moment his fingers itch for his bow, for a haul that large would feed many in the village for a long while, but he stops himself. He has never killed a deer – too many fall under the violent and lustful hands of the other men in his village and he has never brought himself to slay one of his own. They mock him for it but Daryl is strong in his conviction. He will kill boar, wolves if he must, but mostly he sticks to rabbits and squirrels when Rick offers him a chance to hunt.

So he watches her as she comes to the creek to drink, completely without fear of him. She is beautiful and Daryl hopes she will bear young this autumn and find a mate that can provide and protect. Daryl has resigned himself to a life of loneliness but it fills him with such joy to see a mated pair of birds wing around above his head or see two rabbits curled up together in their burrow, or when he sees a she-wolf with her pups cross his path.

"She's beautiful, Rick," he tells the open air.

"She's yours, if you wish it."

Daryl startles, turning his head to see the fey man melting from the trees. Rick's smile is bright and happy, and Daryl blinks at him because he has never seen Rick outside of their nightly exchanges, and never in such plain light.

Rick is beautiful. Of course, all fey are, but Rick has the stoic pride of a king, the gracefulness of a swan. His shoulders are not broad but he stands tall and commands the air around him, and any man who makes the trees bow and the rivers sing could never be anything short of wondrous. Daryl's whole being shivers, the prey animal in his human skin knowing a powerful predator when it sees one, and the rest of him overwhelmed by the vague mortal acknowledgement of beauty. He sees Rick, and for the first time since his teenaged years, he finds himself coveting something other than a good meal and a warm place to lay his head.

"Well met, stranger," Rick says, and his voice is happy and young as he takes a seat by Daryl on the rock. He folds his legs and leans back, his palms spreading out along the stone. His eyes meet Daryl's and Rick's gaze pierces him and Daryl feels like Rick can see all the murky, human desires he holds there. Daryl clears his throat and turns his face away.

"Well met," he replies, licking his lips, and lifts a hide to bite at his thumbnail. His eyes flick back to the doe and he remembers Rick's offer, and shakes his head. "I cannot take her. That is too much to ask."

Rick makes a soft sound, his head tilting curiously as he leans forward. "You truly do not want her?" he asks, and Daryl lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "She is young, and fine. Or…" Then, Rick's expression melts into something flirtatious, his eyes glimmering with mischief. "Are bucks more to your taste?"

Daryl's face colors and he looks down and shakes his head. "It is too much to take," Daryl says. He remembers stories of the fey – they deal in bargains, but sometimes there is more written into those deals than humans can fathom. As much as he wishes to live with the fey, as much as his heart yearns to belong to the forest as much as Rick does, he does not want to sacrifice himself to that point. He does not want to become a slave like he has heard so many tales of. Men who lust for their women and make deals for potions and possession and end up disappearing and never to be seen again. Children who eat without asking and are forced to live amongst the faerie folk forever.

Daryl's freedom has always been too precious to him for that.

"Daryl." Rick's voice has taken on a rough edge of frustration, but he sits back again with a sigh, his body lax. Daryl forces himself not to admire the slope of Rick's neck or the strong angle of his jaw, greyed out with stubble. "For eight months you have given me more gifts than a man wooing his beloved. And I have blessed you with hunts because I know it is all you will accept from me. But after last night, it is not enough. I need to give you more."

"I don't really want anything," Daryl replies, shifting his weight and biting down on his cuticles. The doe looks up at them both, her dark eyes glistening, before she turns and trots away, her white tail raised high in a farewell. "And I won't take more than I'm owed. You're…helping me, anyway, by helpin' the kids."

Rick smiles. Daryl can feel his pleasure like summer rain, warm on his skin and running down his arms. Daryl remembers when he first met Rick, lost and alone in the woods after his father's funeral where the judgement of the town had slung more rocks and arrows at him than his father ever could. Rick had found him, greeted him with a cheery 'Well met, stranger' and asked him why he wept for a man who had never loved him.

"I suppose that's true," Rick says, breaking Daryl out of his thoughts. "Still, if there is anything else I can provide you, it is within your power to ask me." He turns his head and fixes Daryl with his gaze again, eyes dark and blue like the heart of an ice storm. "I would give you anything, Daryl."

Daryl knows. That's what makes it all so damn difficult. Because someday, maybe, the risk will be worth the reward.

Daryl has come to terms with loving a faerie. It is surprisingly common, in all honesty, especially with people like those who live in Daryl's village, across ley-lines and so close to the powerful spirit and all of his kin that reside within the forest. Women have run off with fey men since the dawn of time and men have fallen prey to nymphs and other fey for even longer.

It must be something built into human DNA, to lust for and need to possess and corrupt the sinless and pure. It is evident in their farmlands and their houses, structures built to rebel and keep back the natural wild they were born into and clawed their way free from.

Daryl brings his score to the butchers to sell and skin, and helps them deal out the meat into what will be sold fresh and what will be dried for jerky for the coming winter. By the end of the day he is tired to his bones and wishes nothing more than to sleep.

 

 

When he returns to his house Merle is there, crouched over the cooking fire and stirring what smells like rabbit stew, and Daryl grunts in greeting as he sets his empty, bloody bag down and rests his bow by the door.

"Good haul?" Merle asks, rubbing his stump against his scratchy beard. He lost his hand to the smithy years ago and has fashioned an iron cast to go over his stump and to attach tools to, but Daryl knows it aches his bones sometimes and he'll more often not wear it while at home.

Daryl nods. "The village will eat well for a while," he says with a touch of sadness, because when the stores are full it means he has no real reason to go hunting, which means he cannot see Rick. But he uses his time between for other things – things like finding children to give to Rick. For such a small village there are plenty of them. The orphanage is bursting at the seams and it seems like with each winter there are more parents willing to abandon or abuse their offspring to survive.

Daryl remembers when Rick saw his scars, the dark anger there, and the anger that comes through whenever Daryl brings him a child with bruises on their faces or so skinny with hunger they can barely walk.

" _I can save them,_ " he had said. " _Children like you. Bring them to me and they will want for nothing_."

Daryl's first had been Sophia. Her mother is a kindly woman named Carol, and one of Daryl's only friends, but Sophia's father is a brute of a man who spends more time with his dick in other women than he does with his hands laying welts and bruises to Carol and Sophia. Daryl hates him down to his bones and when he'd told Carol of his encounter with Rick, Carol had begged Daryl to take Sophia away. She still cries at night, her heart aching for the child that was lost to the woods, but they both know she's in a better place now.

Merle grunts as Daryl sits down, sitting back from the stew to let it finish. "Got cornered by them God-fuckers," he says after a moment and Daryl lifts his head. "Askin' me if I knew where you were all yesterday."

Daryl bites his lower lip but refuses to back down from Merle's questioning glance and raised eyebrow.

"What kinda trouble you been gettin' into, little brother?"

"None of their fuckin' business," Daryl bites out. "Or yours, for that matter."

"Easy, now," Merle says, raising his hand in a pacifying gesture. "You know I don't care what you're doin' as long as it ain't what I'm doin'."

Daryl scoffs. "I assure you, it's nothing like what you're doing."

"Good." Merle eyes him for another moment. "Jus' be careful, alright, little bro?"

Daryl nods shortly and finally looks away. "I'm goin' to bed," he says, ignoring the low growl in his stomach. There will probably be some left for him, and if there isn't then he can steal some from the stores to feed himself for the next few days. He flops down onto his bed fully clothed and turns towards the window with a huff. The breeze brushes across his cheek as tenderly as a lover's touch, as though to ask if he's okay, and he presses his fingertips the wood of the wall and hums.

 

 

In the morning Morgan comes to walk with Merle to the smithy. Morgan is a kind man but rubs Daryl the wrong way – he never seems to speak of anything but peace and the sanctity of life, and while that's all well and good, Daryl knows that the world doesn't operate that way.

His thoughts are proven when he is approached by three of the louder voices of the village. There is Philip, the unofficial leader and governor of the town, with his right-hand man Gareth and a man with a burned face named Dwight. Daryl hates them all with a passion he cannot quite quantify, as though they are coyotes and he is a wolf in his den. Dwight works with his master, Negan, as soldiers and makes up part of the brash hunting party that violates Rick's woods every year and Dwight has always hated Daryl a little more acutely than everyone else.

Daryl doesn't understand why. He hates fire just as much as Dwight does.

"The Sisters have come to me with some concerns of theirs, Dixon," Philip says by way of greeting, his smile sloping awkwardly like a man who has only learned how to smile from books. There's a patch over his eye from a hunting accident a few years back and Daryl stares at it pointedly as though he has no more manners than a child. Philip leans his elbow on the post of Daryl's fence and cocks his head to one side.

When no elaboration comes, Daryl sighs and straightens from the small patch of vegetables he and Merle manage to rear on their own. "That so?" he asks, dusting off his hands. Dwight stands up taller when he steps around the vegetable patch, his icy eyes glaring. They're not the same blue as Rick's, not by a long shot. They remind him of the whites of the dead, of the mad.  Gareth twitches by Philip's side, gnawing at his lower lip. The man is crazy, a wild dog just rearing to be let loose, and Daryl eyes him warily before putting his gaze back on Philip. "I spoke with the Sisters just yesterday morning. Is this the warrant I asked for?"

"It doesn't have to be," Philip says. He spreads his hands out in a gesture of openness and friendship. "We all know what it's like – women cooped up there all day with nothing to do but raise other people's children and pray, they're bound to get silly ideas in their heads. _But_ …" He pauses for dramatic effect and Daryl wants to roll his eyes. "Rumors like this, well, I'd be remiss if I didn't at least look into them."

"I'm not hiding anything," Daryl says, and spreads his arms out in challenge. "Search away."

Philip's smile grows wider and Daryl is reminded of a fox, sly and slippery as it prowls between the chicken coops. "I like you, Daryl," he says, pushing himself away from the post and taking a few steps towards the other man. "I like you a lot. You're invaluable to us, really." He nods back at Dwight and Gareth, forcing them to agree, and they do with stiff motions of their heads. "But I think we all know that you _do_ have things to hide, don't you?"

Daryl refuses to let himself be cowed, but he does look towards the other two men. He's waiting for them to lunge – it won't be the first beatings he's received at the hands of the village and he's certain it won't be the last, but Dwight has hate in his eyes and Gareth…

Well, Daryl _knows_ that Gareth's tastes in meat lie much more towards the unsavory and the barbaric. He's not sure the Governor won't take off his hand and let Gareth eat it in front of him just to prove a point.

"I didn't take those kids," he murmurs, taking a step back finally as all three men start to advance on him. He doesn't curl up and resign himself to the fight like he used to with his father – these men aren't Dixons, don't have the wild blood in them to make him grovel and whimper like that. Still, pain is pain. Daryl's heart starts to speed up and his fingers twitch, itching for his bow. "I've got nothing to hide. I was in the woods all day."

"Ah, the woods." At that, Philip's dark eye glimmers and his smile sharpens, before he turns his gaze to the trees. He's standing close enough that he's almost at Daryl's shoulder, and Daryl can hear him breathing as he stands and admires the view. "No one knows the woods like you do, isn't that right?"

Daryl nods, biting the inside of his lower lip to hide his tension. "Yes, Sir. That's right."

"Perhaps you will take me there one time," Philip continues, rubbing at his smooth cheek and down his neck in thought. "I imagine there are all kinds of secrets in there."

Daryl's skin crawls at the _thought_ of inviting Philip into Rick's sacred space. "No," he replies strongly, lifting his chin when the man turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow. "No. I won't take you in there. I won't ever take anyone in there."

Philip's smile doesn't move but his entire face tightens. "I figured as much," he says, leaning in so that Daryl has nowhere to look but his eye. His gaze is sharp like a cat watching a mouse suffocate under its paw. "I'd best keep to myself for a while, Dixon." Then, he leans away and Daryl sucks in a hard breath. Philip turns away.

"Gareth, Dwight, please make sure Daryl understands the importance of our visit. I would be very unhappy if I had to walk all this way a second time."

Gareth's smile reminds Daryl of a hungry coyote, and Dwight has the dead, crazy rage in his eyes of a boar about to charge. Daryl braces himself as they step forward, his fingers curling in, and prepares for his lesson.

 

 

Compared to other times, Daryl isn't badly hurt at all. His ribs ache if he breathes in too deeply but he can walk and he can see and that's all he needs. His shoulder hurts from being wrenched out of place and forced back in after the men had left, and his cheek throbs from a series of punches that he knows have left his skin purple and raw.

He retreats to the only sanctuary he knows, only stopping to place his hand against the old birch and ask permission to enter. The leaves are wet and drip onto him though there has been no rain, as though the trees are weeping for his state.

He finds the creek and collapses onto the rock, curling up on himself and shivering despite the warmth that the stone leeches into him, as though the material is trying to soothe his aches and heat up his bones.

He knows when Rick approaches, can feel the change in the air like the moment the clouds break and rain down on the mortals below. He raises his good arm to hide his face from Rick's sight but otherwise doesn't move and stays curled up on his non-bruised side.

Rick walks over to him quietly, his bare feet making little sound on the brittle sticks and leaves that litter the ground around the creek. "Well met, stranger," he says, and his voice is solemn and quiet. Daryl hates it, hates how the trees bow with anxiety and the wind trembles like a shaking hand reaching out to pet his hair away.

"Well met," he replies because that is the way their conversations go. Then, he coughs, and groans when the action jars his ribs. "I'm sorry, Rick, I'm not good company today."

"You are the best company I have ever had," Rick says, his voice like chirping birds and rustling leaves. Daryl, at least, manages a smile, before he pulls his arm away and sits up.

Rick sucks in a breath, his eyes flashing silver as he takes in the sight of Daryl. His entire face darkens. His skin too, fading to the dark brown of an oak before he controls his glamor and forces his skin to return to normal. It is the most wild, the most alien, that Daryl has ever seen him and he blinks up at the man and watches as Rick's eyes fade back to a dark, angry blue like the heart of the ocean.

"Who did this to you?" Rick demands, reaching out to touch Daryl's cheek. It doesn't hurt but Daryl still flinches. Rick has never made such a deliberate motion to him before and the power in the faerie's touch strikes him like lightning. "Who _dared_ touch you?"

Daryl shakes his head and pulls his knees up to his chest. The action makes him ache but he ignores it and lets his attention focus on following the strings of fabric in his pants. There's a small fault in the line where a hole will undoubtedly start but for now it is simply thin, worn down to the point where Daryl can almost see the skin of his knee through the fabric.

"I will kill them," Rick says, his voice a low rumble and forcing Daryl's head to snap back up in surprise. "I know who did it. Why won't you tell me?"

"Because there's nothing you can do," Daryl replies, then blinks and amends; "There's nothing you _should_ do, Rick. They're just men. They can't really hurt me."

"They could _kill_ you," Rick snaps, stepping back and pacing to the edge of the rock, before he whirls around and starts back at Daryl. Back and forth like a tiger in a pen. "They could burn you, or cut you to pieces, or _hunt_ you like they do my friends. What would I do without you?"

Daryl shrugs his good shoulder and lifts his cuticles to his mouth to bite at them. "I'm sure you could find another person to bring you children," he mutters, a tad more darkly than he'd intended but no less true.

Rick whirls to glare at him, stopping mid-pace. His eyes are shining like a full moon and his fangs gleam in the sunlight.

" _Daryl_ ," he says, walking over and falling to his knees so heavily that Daryl has a moment to fear for his body before he remembers that Rick is one of the fey, and things like pain and stone don't touch him like they do Daryl. He takes Daryl's hand in both of his and squeezes tightly. "I adore the gifts you bring me, and yes, I could find another should you decide to stop, or should you get taken from me. But surely you must know that it is _you_ that I love, that I treasure."

Daryl's eyes are wide. He feels frozen to the core, disbelieving and feeling like he's been gutted and skinned raw, a prey animal for Rick to feast upon at his leisure. Rick could eat him alive and Daryl might not protest.

"My beloved," Rick continues, lifting Daryl's hand that is still tightly clasped in both of his. He kisses his own knuckles where they are wrapped around Daryl's fingers, and Daryl's hand twitches as though he can feel the warmth himself. "I would give you anything you asked for."

"It's too much," Daryl replies breathlessly, shaking his head. He pulls his hand away and Rick lets him, his face full of the beautiful kind of sorrow seen on weeping angels or felt in the vague empty pang of winter. "I cannot own you, Rick, and I cannot give myself up to your ownership of me."

"You could own me," Rick says, sitting up straighter. "It is a contract of the fey folk – if you knew my real name, you could compel me to leave this forest and stay with you."

Daryl is already shaking his head before Rick can finish. "I have no wish to compel you to do anything," he murmurs and tries to make his tone neutral, to not show just how much the idea of _forcing_ Rick to leave the sanctity and beauty of his home repulses him. "I want to be free, and I want to be here, but I cannot be both."

"I will not let those men pass freely after they have done this," Rick says, cocking his head to one side, his icy eyes dragging up Daryl's injured cheek like a physical touch.

Then, he pushes himself to his feet and the moment is broken. Rick's smile lights up the air like the morning sun and his voice takes on a playful, promising tone; "Bring them to my forest," he says, his voice threaded with power. "I'll show them what they want to see."

Daryl's eyes widen and he shakes his head. "I won't bring them here," he spits, glaring at Rick.

"Beloved." Rick's hand cups Daryl's chin too quickly for him to flinch away. Daryl's cheeks color as he realizes just how close Rick is standing, and how he has to force his head far back to meet the fey man's eyes. "Do as I ask and I will give you everything you will never ask for."

And then he's gone, disappearing like dandelion seeds in the wind with a warm laugh. Daryl shivers, feeling the cold from Rick's absence sinking into his skin and turning his joints to stone. He sits by the creek, undisturbed by any animals, and stares at the running water until the sun starts to set. It is almost too dark to see by when he finally stands and makes his way home.

 

 

The next morning, Merle is already gone and when Daryl steps outside there is a small mob of people at his fence. Really, this is getting ridiculous. Can't he have one morning where he's alone to himself?

But his attitude quickly dies when he sees who makes up the gathering. Sisters Andrea and Bethany, along with Carol and Philip and Dwight and Gareth. Even Dwight's master, Negan, is here, his giant longsword at one hip and his Morningstar held casually in his hand, wickedly-spiked end resting on the ground.

"There!" Andrea cries, pointing at him as though anyone else could be emerging from his house, and Daryl freezes.

Philip shakes his head. "I _really_ had hoped we could have avoided this," he says, taking a step forward.

"What is going on?" Daryl asks, taking a step back. He'll take a fight with fists and bare knuckles if he has to but there is no _way_ he's going to square up against a sword and Negan's vicious-looking Morningstar. Dwight is armed too, and Gareth with his farmer's scythe and Philip is wearing a single knife at his belt. Philip uses poisons. It's something everyone knows but no one talks about.

"Another child is _missing!_ " Bethany hisses, her bright eyes wide and angry. "You took him!"

"I did no such thing!" Daryl replies sharply, because this time he actually _is_ innocent. Which means there is a child missing and _why_ aren't these people looking for him? "Who is missing? What child do you think I took?"

"Miss Greene's boy," Philip says, his voice slick and calm like oil, "has disappeared in the night. He's a little too young to just get up and walk away, and no one has seen you since our discussion yesterday morning." He tuts, shaking his head. "I must say, Dixon, the circumstances don't look kindly on you."

"Fuck you, Blake," Daryl hisses, backing away further as the mob starts to advance. "I didn't take Maggie's kid. I didn't!"

Margaret and Glenn are kind, devoted parents. That child would – _will_ – grow up happy and loved. He would never _dare_ …

Daryl's eyes catch Dwight's, and he sees the cruel, smug smile on the man's face. And the truth hits him as quickly and hard as a fist.

"You _lowlife -_." But he can't finish his curse because they're all coming for him now and he must run. He must run or they will kill him, and so Daryl turns on his heel and sprints for the other side of the farmhouse. The fence in the back is damaged and has never been fixed because there is nothing to protect the house from, no wayward creatures will harm his crops or scare Merle's horse, and he jumps the broken fence easily and makes a break for the tree line.

"After him!" Andrea screeches and Daryl looks behind to see the men running along after him, hot on his heels. He barely has time to touch the old birch and ask hurried permission before they're on his tail. The wind whips up behind him, urging him forward and faster and Daryl runs.

The others don't ask permission. They wouldn't know to.

They are loud and brash as they trample through the forest behind Daryl and the hunter barely gives any thought to where he's going except to run as fast and as far as he can. His boots tread across the deer trails easily, knowing the ground, and the wind does not let him stumble and the trees part to let him pass without fear of branches whipping across his face. Behind him, above the pounding of his heart, he can hear nature being far less kind to his pursuers.

He rounds a corner and lets out a yell as a hand snaps out to grab him and haul him off the path and into a thick patch of undergrowth. A hand claps itself over his mouth hard and Daryl wheezes, his hands shaking and his heart pounding. He doesn't even notice the flare in his cheek at the harsh touch. All he can feel is the tingle of power and the broad, warm chest he's pressed against, the thighs so effortlessly molded to the backs of his, the other hand placed with tender and loving care against his lower stomach.

"Let them pass." Rick's voice commands the trees to part as they did for Daryl and he watches with baited breath as Philip, Gareth, Dwight and Negan barrel past them and down the trail. Only when he cannot hear their steps does Rick release his mouth, although he doesn't go so far as to unwrap his arm from around Daryl's waist.

"Rick," Daryl breathes, weak from relief, and sags back against the other man as his lungs fight to calm down and his heartbeat stutters unsteadily. Rick hums, his lips pressed to the back of Daryl's head for a moment before Daryl pushes away from him.

He turns to look at Rick, his gaze taking in the joyful look on the man's face. "…Well met, stranger," he says, and Rick's grin brightens, his eyes changing to a cloudless-sky-blue. He purrs and joins Daryl on the path, his eyes on the foot prints laid into the ground from the men's heavy steps.

"Well met," Rick replies, lifting his gaze to stare where the men had gone. There's a steadiness to him like a hunting cat and Daryl remembers Rick's promise to him earlier.

He doesn’t know why he says it – maybe it's because Rick saved him, or maybe his blood is burning with anger over the betrayal and the blame. "I brought you gifts," he says, his voice hard as he joins Rick in staring down the path. "More than you asked for, even."

"That you did," Rick replies with a nod. "A most…invigorating hunt for my wolves and my bears. And, maybe, if they make it deep enough, my kin." He turns to Daryl, grinning with his fangs showing. "Have your kind stories of the faerie hunt?"

Daryl shakes his head.

"Oh! It's a wonderful sight," Rick says, rolling onto the balls of his feet before settling down as though he's a child getting ready to dance. "The scent of fear and the sweat, the blood! Oh, you would love it, Daryl."

Daryl shifts his weight. "I don't much enjoy the thought of hunting men," he murmurs.

Rick grins at him, his eyes going half-lidded, his voice a purr; "I think you would enjoy hunting with me," he says, his voice low and buzzing with promise. Daryl feels a shiver run up his spine as Rick slides against him, muscles like liquid gold and eyes shining silver-blue. "The scent, the sweat, the blood racing…" He lifts a hand and runs the back of it down Daryl's uninjured cheek and smiles. It's nothing like Philip's smile – Rick smiles like he was born to do it. Nothing in the world is bad when Rick is smiling.

Daryl bites the inside of his lower lip, his fingers flexing. "I don't think you're talking about a traditional hunt anymore, Rick," he says, hardly knowing where the teasing tone is coming from when it feels like he can hardly breathe.

Rick chuckles, tilting his head to one side. The slope of his neck is so enticing, the red slant of his mouth daring Daryl to press forward and take what Rick is so willingly offering him.

"My hunter," Rick whispers, his lips so close to Daryl's. He drags a finger under Daryl's chin, clawed tip catching and leaving a little stinging line, but not penetrating deep enough to draw blood. "I think you would love my style of hunting. I think…you would enjoy being conquered, if only for a moment."

And damn it, Daryl thinks Rick might be right.

Then, Rick blinks, his mood shifting like mercury as he steps back and laughs. "But first I must appreciate your gifts! You have promised me and my family a good hunt. And I – I have made a promise in return." He cocks his head to one side, licking his lips, and reaches a hand out to touch Daryl's chest. "Everything you wish for but will never ask for. Those were my words, no?"

"I don't want anything from you," Daryl says.

Rick smiles, sultry and knowing. "Oh, we both know that’s not true, beloved."

"The baby." The words come from Daryl suddenly, because his head is a mess of want and desire and he's on unsteady ground now but _this_ , this is something he can ask for. "The man with the burned face, his name is Dwight, and he stole a baby and framed me for it. The baby comes from a loving home and good parents."

Rick blinks at him, head tilted.

"Please," Daryl asks. "If you can. Please find him. Please bring him home."

Rick grins at him suddenly, straightening up and prowling forward. "Anything for you, beloved," he purrs, before he turns and disappears into the forest with a laugh. It is mere moments later that Daryl hears the howl of many wolves rising up around him. The hairs on the back of his neck rise and he retreats quickly back the way he'd come.

He tries not to think about those four men, doomed to spend their last hours alone and terrified in Rick's forest until they are mercilessly ripped to shreds. He will not miss them and does not feel sorrow for them, but there is no way he can go back home now. The town will think he killed them, and will run him out for kidnapping even if he can convince them that he didn't kill them.

He's fucked. He can't go home.

He collapses by the old birch with a low moan, tired and sore in all the wrong ways. The Sisters are not by his house anymore and he can't see any tracks of them following the men into the woods, which is good. He doesn't need some Christian God getting pissed at him even more than He already probably is at Daryl. Consorting with Pagans, so he's learned, doesn't earn you favors with that All-knowing Deity.

He lifts his head and turns it towards Carol as she emerges from behind another tree. Her hands flutter uselessly at her skirts, her head bowed and covered with a shawl. Daryl wants to be angry – she'd been with the party too, and had stood by and said nothing – but he can't find the energy to be. He's alright. Rick has protected him and will continue to do so, and Carol isn't exactly the kind of woman to raise her voice to any man, let alone four powerful and dangerous ones at once.

"I'm sorry," she says as she comes to stand next to him. Daryl doesn't move to rise and she doesn't make any attempt to sit with him. Daryl considers her a friend but he's not going to go out of his way to make her feel welcome, especially with his gut churning so unhappily and his hands still shaking. "I didn't know what they were coming to you for but I saw Philip approach Negan and I knew I had to come."

Daryl grunts and pulls one leg up to rest his arm against. He wishes he had some of Merle's chew just to give his mouth something to do because his lip feels tender and raw. "Can't blame ya," he says, scratching at his jaw. "You know better'n'all of 'em how right they are."

"But they're making you out to be this _monster_ ," Carol replies, her hands twisting the outer-most layer of her skirt into a knot. Her hands are dirty and her knuckles look skinned like she tried to catch herself when being flung into a wall. Daryl takes an idle moment to imagine planting an arrow in her husband's head. "You're _saving_ these children. I just wish I could go, too."

Daryl nods. He understands _that_ better than anyone.

"What are you going to do?" Carol asks, her eyes wide and fixed on the dark heart of the forest. "Those men…they're not coming back, are they?"

Daryl shakes his head. "Probably not," he replies. "Not in one piece, anyway."

"The Sisters will have your skin for that."

"Yeah." He's never been an idealist – Daryl has always known that one day it's going to come down to his survival. Either he would stop yielding enough meat to earn the village's tolerance, or he and Merle would do something so unforgivable to them that their usefulness no longer outweighs the trouble they cause. Truthfully Daryl had thought that Merle would end up bedding the wrong woman and they'd be run out for that.

He scoffs and shakes his head. "Do me this favor, Carol," he says, pushing himself to his feet. "Tell Merle I'm gone, and not to come looking for me."

Carol's eyes widen and Daryl starts for the house, hearing her high breaths and the rustle of her clothes as she follows behind him like an unsteady yearling. "Gone? Where will you be gone to, eh? Where are you going?"

"Away," Daryl replies shortly. He grabs the bag he uses to carry his kills and slings it over his shoulder and across his chest. The vegetables are not yet ready to be reaped and so he leaves them, even though he knows they will probably wither without him there to rear them properly. There is still some stew that he packs into a leather sling, and his water skin is empty but the creek will yield water that is fresh and clean and will sustain him.

Lastly he grabs his bow and his arrows, letting them settle into their familiar place across his shoulders. Carol has stayed outside his house but looks at him with something close to fear when he steps back out, her thin face worried and pinched.

"You cannot mean to leave," she says softly, her bright eyes glistening with tears that she refuses to let fall. Daryl has always liked that about her – he has never seen her cry. She's too strong for that. "What will you do? Go live in the forest like some kind of savage, with that _witch_?"

"You're going to call _me_ a savage?" Daryl challenges, stepping towards her although he would never get so close to her as to be immediately threatening. He won't do that – he has never threatened a woman and he will _not_ start now. Still, she flinches from him, too sensitive to the anger of men to fight the reflex. "After what the Governor and his friends meant to do to me, after what your _husband_ does to you every night, you're going to call _me_ a savage?"

"We are all civilized here," Carol replies quietly. "If you go into that wood, and you give yourself to that pagan, you are no longer a child of God. You will live in _sin,_ Daryl."

"Is that what you think is happening to Sophia?"

Carol blinks at him, and then her face crumples in sorrow. "Oh," she says, lifting her hands to her mouth, and shakes her head violently. "Oh, my daughter. I _have_ , I have given her over to the Devil and I am losing my friend to him, too!"

"Your head is full of clouds, woman," Daryl bites out, shifting his bow to rest higher on his shoulder, before he pushes past her and starts striding towards the woods with purpose. He doesn't hear her following but her sobs carry on the breeze that pushes against his back, urging him back to the woods where he belongs, where Rick is waiting for him.

 

The old birch rustles in greeting and the tree branches bow to embrace him as he asks permission before stepping into the forest. A few rabbits scamper across his path, their dark eyes without fear as he walks among them and towards the creek that has unofficially become his daytime meeting spot with Rick. The deer track he normally takes branches off further west, deeper into the thick part of the forest where light does not so easily penetrate the trees.

The creek is happily bubbling and flowing as he takes his spot on the large rock. The stone is cold to the touch but not unpleasantly so – Daryl's muscles burn from running and his lungs ache and it feels good to have the solid, cool surface to press against. Still, the sun is gently warming the air as well, and all in all it is a beautiful day.

Daryl has never actually spent a day in the woods that was not perfect, weather-wise. He wonders if that is Rick's power as well, and if when Daryl isn't there Rick lets the winds whip and the trees grow laden with rain, if he lets the fog roll in, thick and blinding, and casts frost along the ground.

 _Living with the Devil_. Well, if living with the Devil merely means the absence of those self-righteous believers and tales of Hellfire, then Daryl will eagerly submit to that life. Still, he cannot help but wonder. There is a part of him, however small, that was raised to believe in the idea of an Almighty God and His son; that all humankind was born in sin and must ask forgiveness and live cleanly to achieve everlasting life. And that part was raised with tales of the Devil, a beautiful Angel who offered all that one might desire if they merely gave themselves to him.

And isn't that exactly Daryl's situation now? If he gives himself to Rick as he so desperately wants to, is he damning his own soul? Is he no better than one of the Devil's followers, bringing him sinless children as offerings for the creature to raise as his own?

Daryl's fingers curl so tightly that his nails break the skin of his palm and he curses. _No_. No, Rick is not evil. Rick is beautiful and bright and friendly and has never made Daryl suspect he is anything but wonderful.

Then again, the Devil is a very good trickster.

"Stop it," he growls to himself, shaking his head. If he allows himself to believe that, to stop trusting Rick, then there will be no breath in him anymore. There is nothing left for him to go back to and so Daryl decides that it doesn't matter – even if Rick is the Devil and tricked Daryl in a never-ending list of mortal souls he has corrupted, then Daryl will be his. In a way it feels as though he has already given his soul to Rick and isn't that something, that a man might never know how far he has fallen until he looks up.

Rick does not come to him for a long while, but Daryl doesn't mind. He busies himself watching tiny fish swim around in the creek and listens to the trees whispering gently, to the birds carrying rumors and the rabbits stuttering out their little codes and tales to each other. Eventually word will get to Rick that he is here but Daryl has never minded waiting for Rick before and he doesn't now. The silence is calming; to lose himself to pure nature is relaxing.

He pushes his bow and his small quiver of arrows off of his shoulders and lays them down next to his empty water skin and meat bag. The leather bag full of soup goes too, cradled gently by the stone and balanced with all of Daryl's other possessions.

When Rick appears it is almost noon and Daryl has eaten his soup and drank a few mouthfuls of water from the creek. The stone has gotten warm and provides a pleasant place to sun himself, lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head.

He cracks open one eye when Rick's shadow falls across his face. "Well met, stranger," Rick says, reaching down to lend his arm to Daryl, who takes it in a strong grip and lets the faerie haul him to a sitting position.

It is then he notices that Rick's hand is wet and the stench of blood is all around him.

His eyes widen, as now that he is upright he can see Rick and not just his silhouette. The man looks _savage_ , his mouth and the stubble on his face caked with dried blood, his forearms still wet with it. It's in his hair, wetting it and making it curl, and coating his clothes like a second skin. Still, Rick's eyes are that same brilliant blue and his teeth shine as white as bleached bone. Daryl shivers, for a moment terrified and reminded just what exactly Rick is and why his kind inspires so many horrific tales and legends.

Then Rick cocks his head to one side, his eyes shifting from blue to a more somber grey like the bite of a sword. "Have I frightened you, Daryl?"

Daryl licks his lips and refuses to lie. "Whose blood is that?" he asks instead, nodding to Rick's hands as he smears the blood along the rock. Rick has crouched down on the balls of his feet and reminds Daryl of a prowling wolf, ready to pounce.

Rick laughs, throwing his head back and falling so he's sitting like Daryl is, his legs crossed and his eyes shining with mirth. "The one who hit you! With his face made of ashes and scars. His friend likes the meat of other men, so we let him feast to his heart's content while the burned one was still alive! Oh, he _screamed_."

Daryl's eyes are wide in horror. "You fed Dwight to Gareth while he was still _alive_?" he whispers, his lungs unable to hold the breath needed to give volume to the words.

" _After_ we fed  - Dwight, you say his name was? Ah." Rick nods, raising his forefingers to his lips and pressing them together in thought. "Poison, the kind that half-blind man used. Put that in his blood, then fed him to the man-eater! They all _died_." Rick laughs again, the sound completely without malice and just as joyful as Daryl has ever heard it, but he can't help thinking Rick mad, laughing so happily at such a horrendous murder.

"…And the Governor? And Negan?" he asks, because he cannot stop himself asking. His tongue is curious but his mind flinches from the truth. Rick is caked in these men's blood and it is _his_ fault. Because _Daryl_ brought them here and offered them to Rick, knowing what the fey man would do to them.

Rick hums, his eyes going half-lidded, his smile almost inviting like he's trying to seduce Daryl instead of telling him about the murders he's just committed. "Men like that are wolves," he says, his voice a low purr. "And wolves will make sure everyone knows their place."

Daryl remembers hearing the hunting cry of the wolves' mere hours before. They were most likely ripped to shreds in a pack hunt. He shudders and bites his lip, breaking his gaze from Rick's and instead staring out into the water.

"You killed them all," he says.

"They all died," Rick replies, and Daryl isn't sure if he's trying to correct Daryl's wording or merely confirming it. Daryl nods, looking down at his hand where Rick's touch has smeared their blood across his hand and down his forearm. It's fitting, he thinks, and remembers the story of Pilate after Jesus' death.

But those men had not been saviors and he isn't some nobleman wracked with guilt over things he could not comprehend. He knows exactly what happened and why – because this faerie claims to love him and will protect him, and those men violated Rick's woods without permission.

"And what of the baby?" Daryl asks, clenching his fists and pouring out some of his filled water skin over his hand to rinse the blood away.

Rick hums happily. "He is safe," Rick says, rocking back and forth until his heels touch the stone and he can crawl to the creek as well, letting his hands rest just below the water to clean them. Daryl is reminded of two mated animals bathing and grooming each other and wonders if Rick will try something similar with him. Then, he wonders if he would even mind it.

Daryl sighs, his eyes closing with relief. "Good."

"Ash-faced man had hidden him in his home. His home is ashes too, now, but the child is safe."

Daryl's eyes open again and he frowns. "When you say 'safe'…"

"He is home."

"With his parents?"

Rick turns to look at him, his eyes slitted and silver. "Rick," Daryl rasps, "you brought him home to his parents, right? To Glenn and Maggie? You didn't…take him, did you?"

Rick frowns, the expression almost petulant. "You did give him to me," he says, and Daryl's eyes widen and he pushes himself to his feet. "'Bring him home', you said. Just like you have said of all the others. He is home, and with me, he will want for nothing."

" _No_ , Rick," Daryl growls, fire igniting in his spine and burning behind his eyes. " _No_ , that child is not yours to take. I did not give him to you! He's not like the others! His parents will love him and adore him. Give him back to me!"

Rick stands also, feline and prowling as he straightens up. "You demand this of me?" he asks, his silver eyes burning into Daryl's. "To take back what you have so willingly given?"

"You _know_ I -." Daryl grits his teeth, his fingers clenching. "You know I didn't mean what I said about this baby. Glenn and Maggie's baby…he needs to be with _them_." He thinks of those people, people he knows are good and kind and sheltered him and his brother that one winter when their father had beaten them bloody and left them out in the snow to die. "Rick, search me, whatever you need in return I will give it, but _please_ , give the baby back to me. Let me bring him to his parents."

Rick's anger feels different when it's focused on him. It feels like Daryl's soul is a wood mouse braving the spring for the first time, crawling out of her burrow, only to shriek and flee from the frost still biting at the ground. It is a harsh, unforgiving force that pushes at Daryl's chest and drives the breath from his lungs.

"As you wish it," Rick says with an upward tilt of his chin, and then he disappears, and where he was standing Daryl sees the wriggling, whining lump of a swaddled babe. He rushes forward and scoops the baby up, shushing him quietly as he blinks big brown eyes at him and starts to cry in earnest.

"Hush, little one, you're alright," he whispers, and tries to ignore the feeling of the air freezing him to the core, and tries not to notice the way the trees no longer part for him, trembling as though they wish to lash his face but cannot bring themselves to harm the little infant in his arms.

Daryl leaves his things behind, no thought in him but to get the baby home, and he rushes from the forest and to the village, sure that he will receive an even colder welcome there.

 

 

He sneaks into the village as quietly as he can and circles down alleys and back streets to get to Glenn and Maggie's house. He can hear Maggie weeping inside, her cries muffled but still audible through the door. Daryl winces, shifting the weight of the baby in his arms. Just as he does so, the baby wakes and gives an unhappy shriek.

"Shit," Daryl mutters, and raises his hand to knock on the door, but before he can it flies open and he sees Maggie, her hair uncovered and in disarray, the whites of her eyes red from tears. She isn't even wearing a dress over her shift and Daryl clears his throat and averts his gaze for the sake of her modesty.

She raises a trembling hand to her mouth, new tears welling up. "Is it…?"

"Found him in the woods," Daryl says, carefully holding the baby out to her. She takes it, her arms shaking and her shoulders heaving with relief and happiness and fresh tears all at once. "He's alright. Probably just a little cold."

"You found him?" Maggie asks, her young voice high with relief and joy when she lifts her head to look at Daryl. Her expression is a mosaic, fractured pieces making up the whole thing – anger, relief, confusion, disbelief. "They…they said _you_ took him. Were gonna come after you for it."

"I know," Daryl replies, shifting his weight awkwardly. He won't tell her the truth, not now – she doesn't need to know how and why Dwight framed him for it, why he'll never be able to return, how she had almost lost her baby forever to the fey in the woods because of Daryl. How had it not been for Daryl she may have lost him either way.

"Dixon!"

It's Sister Andrea, her eyes wide and her cheeks colored with fury as she glares at him from down the road. Daryl bows his head with a curse and steps away from Maggie's porch. A few villagers' attention had been drawn by her screech and he feels his skin start to crawl, gearing up for another mob.

She strides forward, Sister Bethany and another woman named Betsy hot on her heels. "Where is the Governor? And Negan? And Gareth and Dwight?"

"Dead," he spits back, lifting his chin.

She gapes at him. "You _killed_ them?" she hisses, too loud to be ignored, and Daryl's eyes dart away as he sees the men in the crowd shift their weight, hands tightening on their axes and shovels and whatever other tool-turned-weapon they can grab. "I knew it! You have turned _whore_ to that pagan and invited the Devil in! You have killed four good men from this village!"

"Woah, woah, there."

It's Merle's voice and the crowd part like the red sea for him to step through. Andrea glares at him with pure hatred, her nostrils flaring as he smirks at her.

"Now, sweetheart, don't get too excited. My baby brother here says they're dead, not that he killed 'em."

"Look at his hands!" Bethany gasps, and Daryl clenches his fists and grits his teeth. "There is blood on them!"

"Huntin's dirty work," Merle replies easily, putting his thumb into his belt and rocking on his heels. "Now, I know all you good Christian folk aren't so quick to throw these huge accusations out all wild like them savages, hmm? Let's talk calmly about this."

"First the children," Andrea says, "then the men. I don't know which crime is more heinous, Daryl Dixon, but I know you are guilty of kidnapping and murder both!"

"Kidnapping?" Maggie gasps, clutching her crying son to her chest. "He brought me back my son! Why are you saying he's stealing children?"

"He is! He stole Judith, and Sophia, and Enid and Sam!"

Daryl growls, but holds his tongue when Andrea's cold, glittering eyes turn to him. "You have sold your soul to that Devil in the forest. Confess it now!"

"I will not," Daryl bites back. "I will not confess to sins I do not have. And I did not murder those men. They chased me into the woods and wolves fed from them – you must have heard the howling."

"Curious, then, if you are so sure it was wolves, that they did not harm you," Andrea says with a single raised eyebrow. "The Devil may offer protection from the wild beasts to those who have bound themselves to him. You go hunting in there so often and I never see a scratch or wound upon you. How do you explain that?"

"Maybe I'm just a better hunter than the men you normally associate with, _Sister_."

"You have no weapons, no water skin, and no cloak to protect you from the cold. You are not _human_ anymore, Daryl Dixon."

At her words, the crowd starts to get antsy again. Merle steps forward noticeably, blocking Daryl from the worst of the crowd, those most heavily armed.

"What are you doing?" Daryl hisses.

"Savin' your sorry hide," Merle replies out of the corner of his mouth. "They're gonna rush us, baby brother. When they do, you run and you don't look back, y'hear?"

"Merle -."

"Don't argue with me or I'll take my belt to ya myself." Merle straightens, rolling his shoulders and taking advantage of his impressive size. The crowd are inching forward, incensed by Sister Andrea's words. "Just run to that forest o' yours and take care of yourself, okay?"

"Merle."

Daryl whispers it, but he doesn't argue. His throat is tight and his face burns and there is pressure at the backs of his eyes that feel like tears. But Daryl hasn't cried since his father died eight months ago and he's not about to start now.

"Confess!"

Andrea's sharp cry rings through Daryl's thoughts, snapping him back to the present.

"I will not!"

"Then you will _burn_."

Merle rushes forward with a bellow, scattering the crowd like roaches near a flame, and Daryl turns and flees down the street. There are a few men who try to stop him and one of them takes a swing at his head, but he ducks that and takes off at a sprint towards the forest. The trees reach out for him as though to claw him and drag him down but he pushes past them towards the old birch, praying to whatever might be listening that he will be allowed access into the protection and sanctity of Rick's home.

He can only hope that Rick is forgiving and kind enough to welcome him back.

 

 

Daryl is panting heavily and there is sweat on his brow by the time he reaches the old birch tree. He cannot hear the shouts of the village anymore, but he knows that they will come for him soon. He rests his forehead against the tree and spreads his arms out so that he is embracing most of the trunk, and digs his nails in.

"Please," he whispers to it, wincing when the bark digs into his palms and the limbs creak down to him, dripping cold water down his spine. "Please, let me pass."

The birch groans as it straightens, and Daryl looks up and around the trunk to see if there might be some wild beast there to stop him entering, but there is none. The trees part for him as they always do and Daryl thinks he might cry with relief that he was not cast out from the one place he ever truly felt welcome.

He does not go to the creek, but instead onto the western deer path where the way is narrower and more precarious and people, if they are foolish enough to follow, will be less likely to find him. He stops by the single arch that spans across the path, created by a tree that was split apart by lightning and fell to create a passageway across the path. It is the same tree where he first met Rick, and when he reaches out to touch it he can feel the gentle thrum of the forest God's energy through his skin.

His throat is tight and his lungs burn and Daryl allows himself to collapse with a sob. If the villagers haven't killed Merle outright, they will have his hide in Daryl's stead when they cannot find him. Daryl draws his knees up to his chest, uncaring when his bruised ribs ache in protest, and let the sorrow roam through his soul and wrack his body in great fits.

His tears wet his hands and wash away the last stain of blood clinging to his skin, and his face feels tacky and tight, his body burns with aches and wounds that feel as though they go deeper than they are. Here, in Rick's meeting place, he feels abandoned and alone. He has lost the only family he has and has angered the only person who would willingly come spend time with him with any regularity.

Just as the thought passes through his mind, the air stirs as dust might when moved by the passage of a great beast and Daryl lifts his head to see Rick standing in front of him.

"Why do you weep?" Rick asks, cocking his head to one side. "Sorrow for another man who did not love you?"

"This one did," Daryl replies, lowering his gaze to stare at the small patch of Earth on display between his boots. "My brother, he saved my life. And he's likely dead now."

Rick hums. "You humans are truly savage beasts," he says as though in thought. "My kin have never turned against each other like I have seen humans do." He straightens up and Daryl lifts his eyes again. He has never felt so judged, so _unworthy_ , in Rick's presence before. The fey man's countenance is as icy and cold as a statue, his eyes flat and silver when he stares down at Daryl.

"…Well met, stranger," he says, his voice hoarse, and Rick blinks down at him as though in surprise. "Thank you for letting me back in. I do not regret what I did. I am only sorry it had to happen."

Rick nods. "Is the baby with his mother again?" he asks, and looks pleased when Daryl nods and bites his lower lip. "Come, Daryl. Walk with me."

He holds out his hand for Daryl to take and hauls him to his feet when Daryl allows himself to grip Rick's forearm and let the fey man pull him up. Rick still feels distant, his energy no longer pushing against and caressing Daryl like a she-cat in the midst of her heat, but hovering around him neutrally, unwilling to touch him in a way that had felt so intimate and lovely before. Daryl aches for it, finds his skin cold and unyielding when Rick's breeze is not pushing at his back, and thinks his hair unmoving as stone without the wind to stir it up.

Rick leads him to the stream where Daryl left his things. They are untouched and Daryl finds his usual place on the rock with a sigh. His ribs hurt and his face aches from bruises and crying, but he can feel himself slowly start to settle as he allows himself to remember that this is his home now, and Rick will protect him and feed him and he will want for nothing.

It is everything he has ever dreamed of.

"I always wanted to live with the fey," he says when Rick does not speak. Rick hums again, his eyes flickering to that gorgeous blue, a small smile crossing his face.

"I think…you will be very happy here," Rick replies, finally turning and sitting next to Daryl, his tense shell cracking and dissolving like the egg from a hatching chick. Daryl finally feels the warmth of the sun on his face, Rick's gentle breezes tickling his cheeks and tugging through his hair.

"I thought you would keep me away," Daryl whispers, confessing like he's in a church. "I thought you would set wolves on the paths to keep me out after what happened."

Rick blinks, cocking his head to one side. "I promised you everything you desired," he says with a smile. "I will not break that, no matter what you do. 'Tis what we agreed upon."

At that, Daryl falters. "But…that is not the only reason, is it? I am still welcome here, yes?"

"Of course!" Rick laughs, reaching out to touch Daryl's arm. "My beloved, your passion is what drew me to you in the first place. And your heart and your soul…" His eyes flash silver briefly, dropping to a point on Daryl's chest before lifting to his face again. "You brought me children in need and I gave you what you would accept and now I can give you more! I can give you _everything_."

"I don't want much," Daryl replies, unable to stop himself smiling at Rick's open, honest joy. "Just for this to be my home, to be welcome here. I want…"

He pauses, taking in the playful upward curl of Rick's mouth, the glimmer in his unnaturally blue eyes, the way his posture is always so relaxed and comfortable. He sees the flex of Rick's tanned, unmarked throat; he sees the curl of his hair and knows how it looks when it's wetted and ruffled. He lets himself admire openly, for a moment, the subtle outward curve of Rick's legs, the thickness of his thighs, the strength in his shoulders and the tendons in his forearms.

"I want to hunt with you," he finally murmurs, and knows by Rick's answering smile that the fey man understands exactly what he means.

"My hunter," Rick purrs, shifting onto his hands and his knees, his toes curling underneath him to support his weight as he prowls forward until he is almost on top of Daryl, lifting one foot to straddle Daryl's legs but not letting his weight fall just yet. One hand gently threads through Daryl's hair, keeping his head steady and their eyes locked. "You wish for me to be your master? To guide you and guard you and make sure you want for nothing, just as all the others under my care want for nothing?"

"Yes," Daryl breathes, reminded strongly of brides and grooms when they swear before God and all the community that they will forever serve and bind themselves to each other. "I do."

Because with Rick as his master Daryl will want for nothing, and he can be as wild and free as the wolves and the hawks and the rabbits under Rick's care.

Rick grins at him. "A contract this powerful cannot be merely done in words," he says, his eyes going half-lidded, gaze flicking down to Daryl's mouth for a moment. His pupils contract into slits as he cocks his head to one side and shows his fangs. "Words can be molded and changed. It must be something genuine and pure, beloved."

"Anything," Daryl says without hesitation.

Rick smiles and leans down, resting their foreheads together. It feels as though Rick's eyes are pulling Daryl in until his vision fades at the edges and all he can see is the piercing, clear blue of Rick's irises. Rick lets his weight fall until he's sitting in Daryl's lap, all at once light as a feather and heavy as an iron chain. Daryl feels his warmth and his weight intimately, entire body thrumming with the power leaching into him from the other man.

"Be mine," Rick murmurs, blinking once, lazy and slow like a resting lion, his voice a purr. His hands move from Daryl's hair to his arms, running down them, his pointed nails scraping against the vulnerable underside of Daryl's forearms and mapping the lines of his veins and his tendons. "Be mine, and let me give you everything."

Daryl has barely managed to nod when Rick kisses him. Daryl has borne witness to kisses in the town – gentle, affectionate pecks or quick, chaste things between man and wife before they part ways or when they reunite. He even knows, somewhere deep in his memory, the feeling of his mother's lips on his forehead or his cheek.

He had imagined it would be warmth and affection, something gentle and calming. But Rick's kiss ignites him, as though the man has reached through his chest and is pulling out his heart with red-hot iron tongs. Daryl gasps, arching up against Rick, able to feel the power in the fey man against his skin where Rick still holds his arms, his grip soft but unyielding like manacles lined with rabbit fur.

Rick tastes like caramel and apples, something sweet on his tongue that reminds Daryl of wild berries and honeyed meat. And Rick makes a soft, needy sound, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as Daryl's tongue slides into his mouth to taste more of him.

Daryl has never seen others kiss like this but he knows that he likes it – the feeling of tasting Rick's mouth and learning the shape of Rick's lips against his is something that could easily become addictive. It feels as though Rick is becoming part of him, like Daryl is swallowing something down that warms his belly and tightens his shoulders, and he hopes Rick is feeling the same way, can feel Daryl consuming him and binding them together.

When Rick pulls back, both of them heaving for breath, the fey man's eyes are like liquid silver and glitter in the sunlight. His mouth is pinker than normal, bruised from Daryl's kisses, and he's smiling. His fangs are showing but Daryl cannot remember feeling them when he kissed Rick, and wonders if that is something the man had done to prevent him from being harmed.

"Daryl," Rick says quietly, like a prayer, as though his name is worth all the creatures on Earth and above it. His pulls his hands away from Daryl's arms and Daryl moves his grip to Rick's waist, terrified for a moment that the faerie will disappear from him. Rick's hands cup his face, pressing their foreheads together again, and Rick laughs.

"Your thoughts are a mess, beloved," he purrs, his eyes half-lidded as he pins Daryl with his gaze again. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I am afraid," Daryl admits. When he licks his lips he can still taste Rick on them, and his body aches for the other man still, even when they're pressed so close together. Rick makes a curious sound, cocking his head to one side. "I was raised Christian, and even though I never prayed to that God and never truly believed, I cannot help but think of the Devil, and fear for my soul."

Rick hums, sitting back with a small frown on his face. "I have heard of the Devil," he says with a thoughtful nod. "Is that what they call me?"

Daryl shakes his head. "You're a pagan creature. It's different."

"Are you afraid of me, Daryl?"

"No." Daryl bites his lower lip and lowers his gaze. "You have given me no reason to fear you. I know you are powerful but you have never been unkind to me, or beaten me, or let the wolves bite my neck or the frost take my hands. I do not fear you. My fear is…selfish, I suppose."

Rick cups his chin with a gentle hum, lifting Daryl's face so their eyes can meet again. "Tell me," he commands, and his voice is as gentle as a summer breeze or the feeling of fresh-fallen snow.

Daryl swallows, his fingers flexing where they still rest on Rick's waist. "I was taught," he begins, clearing his throat awkwardly, "that there are certain things that are sinful. And that the Devil comes to men and women and tempts them with their sins so that they are bound to him and then when we die our souls are forever tormented in Hellfire because we chose to serve the Devil instead of God."

"And what are these sinful things?" Rick asks. His touch is calming and cool on Daryl's heated skin, his weight a welcome warmth across the hunter's legs. Still, Daryl feels enclosed and trapped like a chicken in its coop and he wants to shift his weight and avert his gaze and break the lever keeping his mouth open and his words flowing freely. He doesn't want to talk about this.

Daryl clears his throat again. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels heavy, but Rick's gaze is curious and open and he clearly wants to know so Daryl will not deny him; "Lusting after another man, for one," he says, unable to stop himself smirking a little when Rick looks down at himself as though he'd forgotten that he is also male.

Rick makes a soft noise, looking at his hands and turning them this way and that as though they will start to change shape if he stares hard enough. "I can appear as a woman, if that would please you better," he says.

Daryl blinks, and tries to imagine a woman with Rick's eyes, with Rick's curls cascading down her back, and the softness of a woman under his hands, and to hear Rick speak in a higher voice, sweet as honey. He shakes his head and catches Rick's hand in one of his own.

"I like you as you are," he says, lifting Rick's knuckles to his mouth, pleasure warming his spine at Rick's happy hum and smile.

"And I like you." Rick's fingers curl around Daryl's and Rick pulls their hands across the space between them, kissing at the back of Daryl's hand. "It is no sin to enjoy the feeling of another body, or to love whoever your heart chooses. I think it fickle of this God to give you such passion and love and then punish you for it."

Daryl huffs a laugh. "Like I said, I never truly believed."

"It is something you were taught," Rick concedes with a nod, humming against Daryl's hand. "I am glad you brought me those children. They will never have to know that what they want and what they love is wrong to them, or that they will be punished for what their bodies and souls crave."

Daryl sighs, smiling despite himself. He supposes that, if there is an All-knowing Deity out there, He might see the good deeds Daryl has done in saving those children, and might look upon him with favor when the time does come for him to pass into the next life.

"I would like to kiss you again," he finally says, lifting his eyes to meet Rick's once more.

The fey man smiles at him, his happiness rushing over Daryl like the first warmth of the sun. Rick cups the back of Daryl's neck in both of his hands, threading his fingers through the hunter's unruly hair, and leans in.

"As you wish it," he says, before pressing their mouths together. Daryl moans, a soft and needy thing, and grabs onto Rick as though he will never let go, and they lose themselves to that feeling, of Rick's power racing through Daryl's skin and Daryl's flesh pressing hard against Rick like he intends to carve out a space for himself within the faerie's chest.

It is almost dusk by the time they pull away from each other, their mouths too tender to continue, Daryl's heartbeat flying under Rick's touch.

"Will you stay with me?" Daryl asks, his hands smoothing down Rick's sides as the faerie climbs off of him and settles by his side so that they can both stare out at the rippling water in the creek.

Rick grins at him, eyes silver and wide. "Of course, beloved," he says, reaching out to pet a hand through Daryl's hair as the hunter settles down to sleep. The setting sun means the air will grow cold but Daryl does not fear freezing. He knows Rick will keep him warm and comfortable while he sleeps. "I will stay."

 

 

Daryl dreams of the hunt. In his dream he is bare as a newborn, slathered with mud and the blood of his kills, crouched low to the ground and prowling. He can hear the chittering of the fey above him – they appear as tiny, black things with giant teeth and ears like bats, their wings dragging under their arms and their claws digging into the trees as they crawl and flutter past him overhead.

He grins up at them, before his head snaps to one side as he hears a whistle.

Daryl whistles back, the sharp sound carrying, before he turns off the path and into the thicker undergrowth. The trees push at him, the ground rising up to meet his bare feet as he rushes like a wolf through the trees, his wide eyes sharply looking for the sign of the man who had called him.

Rick is standing in an open patch of forest, his back turned to Daryl. Daryl tries to speak but instead of the man's name, the sound that escapes him is a low whine. Rick turns, and although Daryl knows it is Rick it is not the same face he's used to seeing. Rick's skin is black and smooth, no stubble or hair on his head. His fangs are sharp and gleaming, his eyes slitted and silver. He is in his true shape and Daryl's skin shivers at the power radiating from the man as he prowls forward.

"Well met, stranger," Rick says, even though his mouth doesn't move. Daryl feels the words pressing into his mind and he lifts his face to Rick's touch, closing his eyes when Rick's hand lands on his cheek. "Are you here to hunt with me?"

 _Yes_ , Daryl wants to say, but he can't speak, so he nods. Strange, he has never felt such strong sensations in a dream before, but he can feel the chill in the Earth and the warmth of Rick's touch. He pushes up until he's standing tall next to Rick and nuzzles against the faerie, slathers his blood-soaked hands across Rick's shoulders and purrs at the man's touch as it slides through his hair. Rick's claws are sharp and curl around the back of Daryl's neck but he doesn't fear being torn and doesn't fear the pain. His body is trembling but from excitement, from anticipation.

Rick kisses his open mouth and smiles. "Follow me."

 

 

Daryl wakes with a start, his chest heaving. His heart is hammering in his chest, his palms sweaty and his eyes wide as he stares blankly at the creek and the trees and the rock under his face.

A hand runs through his hair, petting him gently, and a low humming sound settles him almost immediately. Daryl turns his head to see Rick resting behind him, the man's head on his hip, and Daryl can feel Rick's shoulder tucked against the small of his back. He is reminded of resting wolves and sleeping lions, and he sucks in a breath and blows it out steadily, willing his blood to stop racing in the anticipation of a hunt.

"Well met, stranger," Rick murmurs, smiling wide as he continues to pet through Daryl's hair, his fingers gliding through and tugging on the knots until they untangle. Daryl sits up; a pang hitting his chest hard when it means Rick has to move away from him. Still, the faerie doesn't go far, instead settling back on his elbows and staring up at Daryl. He looks beautiful, as open and vulnerable as an exposed fawn, and Daryl wants to rub up against him and claim him in all the carnal ways he's been taught are sinful.

Rick smiles like he can read Daryl's thoughts – he probably can, and knows every single thing Daryl wishes to do to him and for him – and tilts his head back so that he is gazing up at the sky, relaxed and happy and exposed like a feast of fine food. "What did you dream about?"

Daryl licks his dry lips, thirsty for something he's not entirely sure water will satisfy. "I was hunting," he says, and Rick smiles and looks at him from the corner of his pretty blue eyes. "I was alone, but your kind were above me and speaking to me, and I heard you summon me and I came. We were about to hunt when I woke up."

"Oh, a pity you woke so soon, then," Rick says, and Daryl squints up at the daylight. He must have slept all night and well past noon, judging by the slant of the trees' shadows. "But I'm sure a dream would pale in comparison to a real hunt." Rick heaves a sigh, falling fully onto his back, and folds his hands behind his head. "I cannot wait for you to see it, beloved. I'm sure it will ruin you for anything else."

"Are we still talking about a normal hunt?" Daryl asks, unable to stop a playful smile coming to his face in the presence of Rick's honest, relaxed happiness.

Rick laughs, his chest heaving in a huge sigh, his eyes fluttering closed. He doesn't answer, but that's okay. Daryl entertains himself admiring Rick, now that he knows he can and that he is allowed. The man is truly stunning, beautiful in that ethereal, untouchable way, and Daryl imagines this is what Angels looked like when they appeared to the shepherds. They must have been terrifying and beautiful and so absolute that there was nothing for them to do but fall to their knees and give praise.

"…Rick," he says after a while, earning a hum from the other man. "I want to ask you something, and I want you to be truthful."

Rick frowns, opening his eyes. "Do you think I would lie to you?"

"To protect me, maybe," Daryl says, lifting his hand to his mouth to bite at his cuticle. "Because I know you are old and powerful and I know I am merely a speck of dust to something like you, and so maybe the answer I want isn't the one I want to hear, but still, I must ask that you do not lie. Not even a half-lie. Will you promise?"

Rick sits up in one fluid motion, his arms settling on his knees as he fixes Daryl with the full force of his gaze. "I will not lie," he vows the leaves around them rustling with the power in his voice. "Ask me anything you wish, and I will answer honestly."

"You promise not to lie?"

"Yes."

"You vow on your forest and your power that you will answer me truthfully?"

Rick licks his lips, his eyes flashing silver, and nods once more. "I swear it."

Daryl's shoulders relax, just slightly – the three questions is a powerful contract, and one he knows the fey strictly uphold. Now that Rick has promised him three times he is bound by the laws of magic and the pagan world to honor his promise.

He sucks in a deep breath, fixing his eyes on the rock between his crossed legs, the fingers of his other hand tugging distractedly at the loose thread of his pants that is finally giving way to a hole on his knee. "What am I to you?" he asks, lifting his eyes. "I cannot bring you any more gifts – by our previous deals I am worthless. And I will die, because I am not like you. I have to know – will you seek out another like me, once I am gone? Or will you tire of me, when I am no longer useful and you have repaid your debt?"

Rick's expression is dark, his eyes gleaming like a snake's.

"You must answer me," Daryl says, "for I have nowhere else to go, and have sworn myself to you. I know I cannot leave, but I must know if you mean what you promise me. I must know if there are others, who have done what I have done, and if you have made the same promises to them and if now their souls are restless and wandering and can see me and will hate me because you were not able to keep those vows."

He falls silent after that, as though the breath has left his lungs and he cannot pull more in. Rick is watching him with the same steadiness as an owl, his claws digging in tight to his palms after Daryl has finished speaking.

Then, Rick blinks at him, his eyes clearing back to blue. The air around them crackles with something that feels like a storm, hot and humid and pressing into Daryl from all sides from the force of it. He feels like a wolf in his den, or a bear escaping winter. He wants to flee from the answers he knows are coming, but he cannot – he has bound Rick to answer truthfully and in that action has locked himself into the words that are coming.

He tells himself he will handle the answer, whatever it may be.

"Your…" Rick sighs, looking down at where Daryl is picking a hole in his clothing, before he lifts his eyes back to meet the other man's. "I don't -."

He makes a frustrated sound, turning his head away.

Daryl bites his lower lip, _hard_ , and forces himself to say; "You must answer."

"I love you," Rick breathes, his eyes still fixed on the forest. "I love you in the same way my creatures love their mates, and I love the children you have brought me. I…What I feel, I have felt for no other. This I swear, on my forests and my powers and on you."

"And what of our contracts?" Daryl asks, pressing because he must know _all of it_. He _must_.

"You have given me gifts and I have often said I wish to give you everything – I promised you, if you brought me those men I would do this, and you repaid that debt tenfold. My kind adored the hunt you brought them and they love you in the same way they love the children."

Rick sighs again and shakes his head, but looks back to Daryl. It feels as though they are suspended in amber and Daryl wishes Rick would _move_ – he is a creature of motion and to see him sitting so still, like a statue in a graveyard or a church, rubs him the wrong way.

"But _I_ love you in another way." Rick heaves in a breath, his upper body moving with the motion. "I love you in a way I think has been forgotten by your kind – the kind of love that yields flowers and fruit. I want to see you flourish, here, Daryl and I want you to be happy and wild and free in the way I know you so desperately crave."

Daryl smiles.

"But I also want you…in a selfish way," Rick continues. His words do not so much flow from his mouth as pour, refreshing and cleansing as water on a hot summer day. "I want you as my own, as something nothing else can touch. I want you in secret, and also in full view of all the forest. I want you bare for me, and I want you to know me and I want to know you. I want to _hunt_ with you."

Daryl's heart is speeding up, his breathing quiet and unsteady. Rick's eyes do not waver from their blue, but he can feel the power in the fey man's voice, feels the heat of his words rushing up his skin like a physical thing, a weight on the back of his neck in the shape of Rick's hand.

"A traditional hunt?" he rasps, voice soft.

Rick grins at him, this inviting and knowing thing. "One of our own choosing, beloved. I want to chase you as I have seen my wolves do, I want to rut with you like a buck mounting his mate. I _want_ you, Daryl, in whatever way I can. In _every_ way I can."

Daryl cannot speak, because Rick suddenly reaches forward and takes his hand, curling his fingers tightly between Daryl's and stopping their frantic fidgeting. "You are my hunter, my beloved, and I want you. And that is how I love you – with abandon, wholly and purely. Should you decide you wish to leave me I will wait for you like the bud waits for spring. I will never stray, and I will never leave you. _This_ I swear to you. _This_ I vow, on everything you have said before. On my forest and my power and my _life_ , Daryl. I love you."

"You swear this," Daryl breathes. "You cannot lie. You _promise_ me?"

" _Yes_ ," Rick says, squeezing Daryl's hand tightly, his eyes earnest and piercing, voice honest.

"Then you may have me. In all the ways you have said. And you are mine in those ways, too."

Rick smiles, his joy fluttering around Daryl like a bird, colors bright and vivid and pure.

And it is nothing like the stilted vows spoken in a church between a virgin bride and the groom who paid her father for her hand. Daryl feels the passion in it, the heat in Rick's gaze, the longing in his throat as though it is his own, trapping his words and silencing his tongue.

"Daryl," Rick says, and it is everything Daryl has ever wanted in the word, and the bolt in his tongue unlocks and dissolves on it.

"You must kiss me," he says. "After a speech like that, you must kiss me, Rick."

Rick smiles and leaps for him, pressing him down onto the stone with a touch as gentle as it is wanting, hands raking down Daryl's back and cradling them close together as they roll and writhe like dumb beasts together. Daryl's mouth finds Rick's and they kiss, a crushing and desperate thing and Daryl can feel Rick's power thrumming through him and into the stone, as though he is another part of the forest that Rick loves and protects.

He belongs here, panting and clinging underneath this pagan creature, and thinks that there is nothing that a Christian God can offer in all His power that could ever compare.

 

 

Rick's laughter echoes through the trees as Daryl runs, his bare feet soundless on the ground as he pushes through thick undergrowth and races through the trees as though there are wolves nipping at his heels. He knows it is useless to run from Rick – the leaves whisper his position to the creature and the Earth trembles finely to signal where he goes – but he still feels the wild thrill of the chase running through him, lighting his blood on fire and urging him onward like a strong wind at his back.

He can feel the eyes of hawks and rabbits on him as he passes them, his breathing heavy over the pounding of his heart. He feels the air shift and tighten and dives just as Rick leaps for him, crowing with delight as Daryl laughs, and runs past to disappear into the air again.

"You're a dirty trickster, Rick!" he yells, grinning and turning around to spy some motion to prepare himself for Rick to pounce upon him again. The faerie is like a kitten, sprightly and full of energy and delights in chasing and playing with Daryl like this. "Show yourself to me."

Rick laughs again, happy and loud, and Daryl licks his lips, pushing his weight onto the balls of his feet in preparation to run again. A branch rustles to his right, signaling Rick's presence and he bolts to the left, his breath heaving when he feels Rick's fingers brush just slightly through his hair.

 _This_ is a hunt, and Daryl has never felt so happy to be prey to his vibrant, beautiful master. He grabs hold of the trunk of a tree and swings around, doubling back just in time to see Rick chase after him, laughing as he slows to a stop and turns with all the grace and power of a lion and leaps for Daryl, pinning him back against the same tree.

Rick grabs onto Daryl's shoulders before he can flee – as though Daryl would want to. "I have you now, stranger," he purrs, his eyes glowing silver and half-lidded as he arches against Daryl's body, his touch soft but demanding as he runs his hands down Daryl's bared, sweaty chest. Daryl has taken to wearing fewer clothes in the forest now, since the heat has gotten almost unbearable and he finds freedom in the brush of dirt along his back and the small cuts and scrapes he gets from living like a wildling.

Daryl grabs at Rick's back, pushing them closer together as Rick's hands find his hipbones and spread out, warm and fine like sunlight through glass. Daryl shivers, his bones turning hot and his heart flinching with sensation from Rick's touches. Rick leans in, purring softly, and noses at the sweaty hair plastered to Daryl's neck.

"Rick," he grunts, tilting his head back and sighing as Rick's mouth presses soft kisses to his throat and his jaw. They are lingering, teasing things, too soft to incite and too insistent to tickle and be brushed aside. "Rick, touch me, _please_."

Rick's laughter, softer now, runs up Daryl's spine and settles in his throat. "I am touching you," he murmurs, and Daryl can see the corner of his smile, teasing and full of delight. His hands squeeze Daryl's hips for emphasis.

"Damn it, you _know_ -." Daryl cuts himself off with another rough sound, at once exasperated and amused that Rick is so insistent on playing with his words when he knows _exactly_ what Daryl means. "Come here."

Rick lifts his head just in time for Daryl to kiss him, surging forward from the tree and spinning them around so that Rick's back is against it, and Daryl grabs at his thighs to push him up just a little so that he can press as closely as he can.

Rick hums, resting his forehead against Daryl's, his legs spreading and then tightening around Daryl so that the hunter can grind between them, their breaths catching when Daryl moves his hips just right, his hardness rubbing against Rick's through their clothes.

"Mm, you are very eager, beloved," Rick purrs, showing his fangs when he grins at Daryl, fingers threading through his hair. "One might think I didn't satisfy you."

Daryl smiles back. His body aches from the strain of running, and holding Rick's weight – and of all the nights before this one, between when he felt he had lost everything and when he found a new home in the forest with his fey men. He aches from taking Rick, baring himself to Rick's forest just as Rick had desired, carrying the weight of the other man across his shoulders and in his hips as Rick had claimed him right in the open, as raw and unguarded as any wild beast. He burns with the memory of having Rick as well, the sensation of Rick's body open and welcoming him as easily as his forest does. Daryl can think of days he's spent in the forest that did not feel as wonderful or thrilling as feeling Rick against him, part of him, and spilling deep inside of him while they both howled and moaned loud enough to silence the wolves.

"You have awakened a hunger in me," Daryl growls against Rick's mouth, stealing another kiss as he grinds with more passion, sure that if he doesn't melt into Rick's skin he will burn from the inside and turn to ash in his lover's hands. "Something I fear will never be satisfied. A thirst I will never quench. You did this."

"And I am proud of it," Rick answers with a purr, smiling and pressing a dark and secret kiss to Daryl's parted lips. "My hunter."

" _Rick_." Daryl closes his eyes, breaking away from the pure, molten silver of Rick's gaze, and drops his forehead to Rick's shoulder as he comes with a low moan, his nails digging tight into the underside of Rick's thighs as he ruts and gasps, shuddering with a broken sound and spilling his seed against the fabric covering his cock. It's warm and wet and he shivers at the feeling of it.

Rick moves like a snake, pushing Daryl away and then striking out so that Daryl stumbles, his shoulder hitting the tree with a dull thump and then Rick turning him, pressing his chest against it while the faerie prowls behind him and plasters himself there, his cock rutting against Daryl's ass.

"You're beautiful," Rick growls, and his voice only gets so low and rough when they're like this, with his desire so plain and human that even Daryl's unevolved mind can understand it. He fists a hand in Daryl's hair and knots his fingers tight, his other hand pushing his pants down so that he can rub his cock bare against Daryl's lower back. "My beloved, I adore you, and I love how hungry you are for me."

Daryl moans weakly, pressing back into the wet feeling of Rick's cock sliding against him, precome smearing across his dirty skin. "Mark me," he begs, digging his nails into the bark of the tree. " _Mark me_."

Rick bites Daryl's nape when he comes, his fang sliding in smoothly to grip and mark, his cock spilling sticky and hot across Daryl's lower back. His skin feels cleaner whenever Rick has marked him, his scars whiter and less knotted. Rick's purr is something Daryl can feel against his ribs, and his breathing is heavy while he waits for Rick to finish and let his head go.

When Rick does, Daryl turns and seeks his mouth again – a quest Rick willingly answers as their lips meet and Rick lets out a sweet, happy noise at the act. His fingers move from the back of Daryl's head to his shoulders, down his spine to smear through the mess he made.

"I adore you," Rick whispers again, spoken with the same passionate joy he has always greeted Daryl with. "Never leave me."

Daryl smiles, petting his hands through Rick's wild hair. "I will not."

"Do you promise?"

Daryl's smile widens and he kisses the word to Rick's neck; " _Yes_."

"Do you swear it? On everything you are?"

The tone is teasing but the three questions sweep through Daryl and he knows the significance, understands the power in his promises, and he pulls back to look into Rick's beautiful, wide blue eyes when he says, "On your mastery of me, and my love of this forest, and on everything that I am, _yes_. I swear it."

Rick's smile is winter sunlight and summer rain and Daryl huffs a laugh. "Satisfied?"

"Yes, stranger," Rick replies with a grin, arching into Daryl's touch and his kiss and his promises. "I am satisfied."


End file.
